La Vendée

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE PASSAGE OF THE LOIRE.

  M. de Lescure had been two days in St. Florent, when his wife and sisterarrived there on horseback, attended by Chapeau. None of the party hadever been in the town before, but it was not long before they wererecognized, and the two ladies soon found themselves standing in the innyard. Madame de Lescure had as yet asked no question about her husband;indeed she had not had opportunity to do so, for she had been hurriedthrough a dense throng of people, none of whom she knew, and when shewas lifted from her horse by a strange hand, she had no idea that thewindow immediately above her head looked from the room in which herhusband lay. Chapeau, however, with considerate tact, did not lose amoment in finding the aubergiste, and learning from him enough to enablehim to whisper a word of comfort to her.

  "He is here, Madame," said he, standing close behind her, "in the roomabove there. He is somewhat better than he has been, and as strong inhis mind as ever. He has been most anxious for your arrival," and thenhe led the way into the hotel, pushing aside the crowd to the right andto the left; and within five minutes from the time of their entering thetown, the two ladies found themselves on the stairs immediately outsidethe chamber in which was lying the object of all their present anxiety.

  For the last four days and four nights, it had been the first and onlydesire of Madame de Lescure to be with her husband; and now that she wasso near him she dreaded to open the door. "Who is with him?" said she,speaking in a whisper, and trembling from head to foot, so that shecould hardly stand.

  "The little Chevalier is with him always," said the aubergiste, who hadfollowed them up the stairs: "he never leaves him, now that M. Henri isobliged to be away."

  "Hadn't I better go in, perhaps," said Chapeau, "and send the Chevalierout? I can tell M. de Lescure that Madame is here; it might be too muchfor Monsieur to see her all at once."

  Without waiting for an answer, Chapeau knocked at the door and went in,while the two ladies sat down on the nearest step, dreading almost tobreathe in their intense anxiety; in a few seconds Arthur Mondyon cameout, and taking a hand of each of his two friends, pressed them to hislips.

  "He knows you are here," said he to Madame de Lescure, "and you are togo into him alone. Marie and I will go down stairs until he sends forus. Be tranquil as you can, while you are with him; you will find himas calm as ever."

  She rose, and entered the room on tiptoe, as Chapeau left it; her facewas as pale as marble, and her heart beat so violently that she feltthat she would hardly be able to reach the chair at the bed-side. DeLescure was lying on a decent but very humble bed, at the farthest endof a large room, in which there were three or four other bedsteads, andan enormous number of common deal chairs and tables piled one a-top ofanother. He was propped up in the bed on pillows, and as he turned hiseyes towards the door, the full light of the sun shone upon his face,and gave an especial ghastliness to its pallor.

  Madame de Lescure tried to control herself; but in such moments thefeelings of the heart overcome the reason, and the motions of the bodyare governed by passion alone. In an instant her face was on his bosom,and her arms were locked closely round his body.

  "Victorine--my own Victorine," said he, "my greatest grief is over now.I feared that we were not to meet again, and that thought alone wasalmost too much for my courage."

  She was for a time unable to articulate a word. He felt her warm tearsas she convulsively pressed her cheek against his breast; he felt theviolent throbs of her loving heart, and allowed her a few minutes beforehe asked her to speak to him. She had thrown off the hat which she hadworn before entering the room, and he now gently smoothed her ruffledhair with his hand, and collected together the loose tresses which hadescaped down her neck.

  "Look up, love," he said; "I haven't seen your face yet, or heard yourvoice. Come, Victorine, you were not used to be so weak. We must allstring our nerves now, dearest: we must all be brave now. We used topraise you for your courage; now is the time for you to show it."

  "Oh, Charles! oh, my poor stricken love!" and then she raised her faceand gazed into his, till the tears made her eyes so dim that she couldhardly see him. "I knew it would come at last," she said; "I knew thisfearful blow would come at last. Oh, that we had gone when others went!at any rate I should not have lived to see you thus."

  "Do no say that, Victorine; do not speak so--do not allow yourself tothink so--or you will rob both of us of our dearest comfort. No, mylove; were it to do again, I again would stand by the throne, and youagain would counsel me to do so. A doubt on that point would becalamity, indeed; but, thank God, there is no doubt."

  "But the misery to see you thus--torn, and mangled, and tortured. Andfor what? What good have we done with our hot patriotism? Is the Kingnearer his throne? Are the murders of the Republic less frequent?"

  "I fear you are selfish now, love. Did we not know, when we first tookup our arms, that many happy wives would be widowed--that numberlesschildren would be made fatherless--that hundreds of mothers would haveto weep for their sons. We must not ourselves complain of that fate, towhich we have knowingly, and thoughtfully, consigned so many others."

  Madame de. Lescure had no answer to make to her husband's remonstrance.She sat herself upon the bed, so that she could support his head uponher bosom; and pressing her lips to his clammy brow, she said in a lowvoice: "God's will be done, Charles: with all my heart I pity those whohave suffered as I now suffer."

  She remained sitting there in silence for a considerable time; weeping,indeed, but stifling her sobs, that the sound of her grief might notagitate him, while he enjoyed the inexpressible comfort of having herclose to him. He closed his eyes as he leant against the sweet supportwhich she afforded him, but not in sleep; he was thinking over all itmight be most necessary for him to say to her, before the power ofspeech had left him, and taking counsel with himself as to the advicewhich he would give her.

  "Victorine," he said, and then paused a moment for a reply, but, as shedid not answer him, he went on. "Victorine, I want you to be allyourself now, while I speak to you. Can you listen to me calmly, love,while I speak to you seriously?"

  She said that she would, but the tone in which she said it, hardly gaveconfirmation to her promise.

  "I hardly know what account you have yet heard of that unfortunatebattle."

  "Oh! I have heard that it was most unfortunate: unfortunate to all, butmost unfortunate to us."

  "It was unfortunate. I hope those who spoke to you of it, deceived youwith no false hopes, for that would have been mere cruelty. Give me yourhand, my love; I hope they told you the truth. You know, dearest, do younot, that--that--that my wound is mortal?"

  She strove hard to control her feelings. She bit her under lip betweenher teeth; she pressed her feet against the bed, and grasped the looseclothes with the hand which was disengaged. The virtue on which herhusband most prided himself was calmness and self-possession inaffliction. She knew that he now expected that virtue from her, and thatnothing would so grieve him as to see her render herself weakly up toher sorrow, and she strove hard to control it; but all her exertion didnot enable her to answer him. It seemed almost miraculous to herselfthat she could sit there, and retain her consciousness, and hear himutter such words. Had she attempted to speak, the effort would haveovercome her.

  "For heaven's sake, Victorine, let nothing, let nobody deceive you; knowthe worst, and look to Christ for power to bear it, and you will findthe burden not too heavy to be borne. You and I, love, must part in thisworld. We have passed our lives together without one shadow to darkenthe joy of our union: we have been greatly blessed beyond others. Canwe complain because our happiness on earth is not eternal? Is it not agreat comfort that we can thus speak together before we part; that Ihave been allowed to live to see your dear face, to feel your breath onmy cheek, and to hear your voice? to tell you, with the assurance whichthe approach of death gives me, that these sorrows are but for a time,and that our future joys shall be everlasting? An
d I must thank you,Victorine, for your tender care, your constant love. You have made mehappy here; you have helped to fit me for happiness hereafter. It isowing to you that even this hour has but little bitterness for me. Arewe not happy, dearest; are we not happy even now in each other's love?"

  Madame de Lescure had, while her husband was speaking, sunk upon herknees beside his bed, and was now bathing his hand with her tears.

  "I cannot blame you for your tears," he said, "for human nature musthave her way; but my Victorine will remember that she must not give wayto her sorrow, as other women may do. Rise, dearest, and let me see yourface. I feel that I have strength now to tell you all that I have tosay. I may probably never have that strength again."

  She rose at his bidding, and sat upon the bed where he could look fullupon her face; and then he began to pour out to her all the wishes ofhis heart, all the thoughts which had run through his brain sinceconsciousness returned to him after his wound. After a little while sheconquered her emotion, and listened to him, and answered him withattention. He first spoke of their daughter, who was now in safety, withrelatives who had fled to England, and then of herself, and the probableresult of the Vendean war. He told her that he would not say a word todiscourage Henri: that had his life been spared, he should haveconsidered it his own most paramount and sacred duty to further the warwith every energy which he possessed; but that he did not expect thatit would ever terminate favourably to their hopes. "The King will reignagain," he said, "in France; I do not doubt it for a moment; but yearsupon years of bloodshed will have to be borne; the blood of France willbe drained from every province, aye, from every parish, before the guiltwhich she has committed can be atoned for--before she can have expiatedthe murder of her King." He desired her to continue with Henri till anopportunity should occur for her to cross over into England, but to letno such opportunity pass. He said that if Henri could maintain hisground for a while in Brittany--if the people would support him, and ifEnglish succour should arrive--it was still probable that they might beable to come to such terms with the republicans as would enable them tolive after their own fashion, in their own country; to keep their ownpriests among them, and to maintain their exemption from service in therepublican armies. "But should this not be so," he said, "should all thevalour of the Vendeans not be able to secure even thus much, thenremember that God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb. With a peopleas with an individual, he will not make the burden too heavy for theback which has to bear it."

  He spoke also of Marie, and declared his wish that she should not delayher marriage with Henri. He even said, that should his life be so farprolonged, as to enable him to be carried over into Brittany, and shouldthe army there find a moment's rest, he would wish to see their handsjoined together at his bed-side.

  "My poor dear Marie!" said Madame de Lescure, almost unconsciously. Shewas thinking of her sister's future fate; that she also might have soonto bewail a husband, torn from her by these savage wars. De Lescureunderstood what was passing through her mind, and said:

  "I know, love, that there are reasons why they had better remain as theynow are. Why they should not indissolubly bind themselves to each otherat such a time as this; but we must choose the least of evils. You willboth now be a burden--no, I will not say a burden, but a charge--uponHenri; and he has a right to expect that a girl, who will depend foreverything on him, shall not shrink from the danger of marrying him. Shehas been happy to accept his love, and when she may be a comfort to him,she should not hesitate to give him her hand. Besides, dearest, thinkwhat a comfort it will be to me to know that they are married before Idie."

  There was one other subject on which he had made up his mind to speak,but on which even he, calm and collected as he was, found it difficultto express himself; he had, however, determined that it was his duty todo so, and though the words almost refused to come at his bidding, stillhe went through his task.

  "You will be desolate for a time, Victorine, when I shall have leftyou," said he.

  She answered him only by a look, but that look was so full of misery--ofmisery, blended with inexpressible love--that no one seeing her, couldhave doubted that she would indeed be desolate when he was gone.

  "We have loved each other too well to part easily," he continued, "and,for a time, the world will all be a weary blank to you. May God, whoknows how to pour a balm into every wound, which in his mercy Heinflicts, grant that that time may not be long! Listen to me patiently,love. It is a strong sense of duty which makes me pain you; my memorywill always be dear to you; but do not let a vain, a foolish, a wickedregret counteract the purpose for which God has placed you here. You arevery young, dearest, you have, probably, yet many years to live; and itwould multiply my grief at leaving you tenfold, if I thought that yourhopes of happiness in this world were to be buried in the grave with me.No, love, bear with me," he said, for she tried to stop him. "The painwhich I give you now, may prevent much grief to you hereafter. Remember,Victorine, that should these evil days pass by--should you ever againbe restored to peace and tranquil life, my earnest, my last, my solemnprayer to you is, that my memory may not prevent your future marriage."

  She was still kneeling by his side, and with her face upturned and herhands clasped together, she now implored him to stop. She uttered nodissent, she made no protestations; but she beseeched him, by their longand tender love, by all the common ties which bound them together, tocease to speak on a subject which was so agonising.

  "I have done, love," he said; "and I know that you will not thinklightly of a prayer which I have made to you in so serious a manner."

  De Lescure had expressed the same wish to his wife on former occasions,which, however, had, of course, been less solemn; and then his wife hadanswered him with a full, but not grieving heart. "Had our lot," he oncesaid, "been cast in an Indian village, the prejudices of the countrywould have required you to submit to a horrid, torturing death upon mytomb. The prejudices of Christian lands, which attribute blame to thewife who does not yield herself a living sacrifice to a life ofdesolation from a false regard to her husband's memory, are, if not sohorrid, every whit as unreasonable; such a sentiment is an attempt tocounteract God's beneficence, who cures the wounds which he inflicts."

  Henri's first care, after having seen Marie and Madame de Lescure, wasto provide for their transit, and that of his wounded friend, to theother side of the water; for he felt that if the blues came upon St.Florent before that was done, nothing could prevent the three from beingmade prisoners. No tidings had yet been received of the advance of therepublicans from Cholet towards St. Florent, and the precautions whichHenri had taken were such as to ensure him some few hours' notice oftheir approach. He knew, however, that those hours would be hours ofboundless confusion; that the whole crowd of unfortunate wretches whomight then still be on the southern side of the river, would crowd intothe small boats, hurrying themselves and each other to destruction; thatdiscipline would be at an end, and that all his authority would probablybe insufficient to secure a passage for his party. About three o'clockhe sent word to Arthur to have the strongest of the boats kept inreadiness a little lower down the river than the usual point ofembarkation; so that they might, if possible, escape being carriedthrough the throng. He then procured a waggon into which de Lescure waslifted on his bed; his wife sat behind him, supporting his head on herlap, and Henri and his sister walked beside the vehicle down to thewater's edge.

  The little Chevalier was there with the boat, and he had with him twomen, neither of whom were young, and who had been at work the whole dayferrying over the Vendeans to the island. Arthur's figure was hardlythat of an aide-de-camp. His head was bare and his face begrimed withmud. He was stripped to his shirt sleeves, and they were tucked upnearly to his shoulders. He still had round his waist the red scarf, ofwhich he was so proud; but it was so soiled and dragged, as hardly tobe recognized as the badge of the honourable corps to which he belonged,for he had, constantly since the morning, been up to his breast in
thewater, dragging women and children out of the river, heaving the boatsashore, or helping to push them off through the mud and rushes.

  It was settled on the bank that Arthur should go over with them intoBrittany, as Henri felt that he could not conscientiously leave the St.Florent side of the river, while so many thousands were looking to himfor directions; and, consequently, as soon as de Lescure and the twoladies had, with much labour and delay, been placed in the boat, heswung himself out of the water into the bow, and the frail bark with itsprecious load was pushed off into the stream.

  The point from which it started was somewhat lower down the stream thanthat from which the boats had been hitherto put off, and, consequently,as they got into the middle of the river, they found themselves carrieddown towards the lower part of the island, on which they had intendedto land. Had the men who were rowing worked vigorously, this would nothave occurred to any great extent; but they pulled slowly and feebly,and every foot which the boat made across, it descended as much down theriver. Arthur had been desired to land de Lescure on the island, andanother boat had been sent round to be ready to take him at once fromthence to the other shore; but when he found that they wereunintentionally so near the lower end of the island, it occurred to himthat it would save them all much pain and trouble, if he were to runround it, and land them at once on the opposite shore; they would inthis way have to make a considerably longer journey, but then de Lescurewould be spared the pain of so many different movements.

  Madame de Lescure immediately jumped at the proposal. "For heaven'ssake, Arthur, do so, if it be possible," said she; "it will be thegreatest relief. I do not think we should ever get across to the otherboat, if we once leave this."

  Arthur was behind the two men at the oars, who had listened to what hadbeen said, without making any observation, or attempting to alter thedestination of the boat; rudder there was none, and the steering,therefore, depended entirely on the rowers.

  "Do you hear?" said Arthur, stretching forward and laying his hand onthe shoulder of the man who was in front. "Never mind the island at all;go a little more down the stream, and then we can cross over at oncewithout landing at all. Do you hear me, friend?" added he, speakingrather hastily, for the boatman took no apparent notice of hisinstructions.

  "We hear you, Monsieur," said the man, "but it is impossible; we couldnot do it."

  "Ah, nonsense!" answered the Chevalier: "not do it--I say you must doit. I wonder you should hesitate for a moment, when you know how M. deLescure is suffering, and how much those ladies have to go through. Turnthe boat down the stream at once, I tell you."

  "It is quite impossible," said the old man doggedly, and still holdingon to his course; "we should only upset the boat and drown you all. Wecould never push her through the current on the other side, could weJean?"

  "Quite impossible," said the other. "We should only be carried downinto the rushes, or else be upset in the stream."

  "Nonsense!" said Arthur. "What's to upset you? At any rate you shalltry." And he laid his hand on the oar of the man who was nearest to him,but this, instead of having the effect which he desired, turned the noseof the boat the other way.

  "For God's sake, my dear friends, do this favour for us if you can!"said Madame de Lescure. "It may save the life of my husband, and indeedwe will reward you richly for your labour. Stop, Arthur, don't useviolence; I am sure they will do this kindness for us, if they areable."

  "If they won't do it for kindness, they shall do it because they cannothelp it," said Arthur, when he saw that the men still showed nodisposition to go down the stream; and as he spoke he pulled his pistolout of his belt, and prepared to cock it. The pistol, in truth, wasperfectly harmless, for it had been over and over again immersed in thewater, and the powder was saturated with wet; but this did not occur tothe boatmen, nor, very possibly, to Arthur either; and when he, steppingacross the thwart, on which the hinder man was sitting, held the pistolclose to the ear of the other, threatening that if he did not at oncedo as he was bid, he would blow out his brains and take his place on theseat, the poor old man dropped his oar from his hand into the water, andfalling on his knees on the bottom of the boat, implored for mercy.

  "Spare me, Monsieur! oh, spare me!" said he. "Ladies, pray speak for me:I am not used to this work--indeed I am not--and I and my comrade arenearly dead with fatigue."

  Arthur put the pistol back into his belt when the poor man begged formercy, and pulling the fallen oar out of the water, declared that hewould himself row round the island, and that the two old men might takethe other oar in turns. They agreed to this, and then he who had beenso frightened, and who was plainly the master of the two, told his taleto them, as he filled Arthur's place in the bow of the boat.

  "When they had heard," he said, "what his former occupation had been,they would not wonder that the hard work at which they found him wasalmost too much for him. He was," he said, "a priest, and had beenemployed above twenty years as Cure in a small parish on the river side,between St. Florent and Chaudron. The other man, who was working withhim, had been his sexton. He had, like other Cures, been turned out ofhis little house by the Republic, but had returned to his parish whenhe heard that the success of the Vendean arms seemed to promisetranquillity to the old inhabitants of the country. He had, however,soon been again disturbed. The rumour of Lechelle's army had driven himfrom his home, and he had fled with many others to St. Florent. He hadbeen advised that those who were taken in a priest's garb, would be moresubject even than others to the wrath of the republicans, and he hadtherefore disguised himself; and as from having lived so long near theriver he had become somewhat used to the management of boats, he had,for charity's sake, leant his hand to the poor Vendeans, willing," ashe said, "to use what little skill and strength he had for those wholost their all in fighting for him, his country, and his religion. Butnow," he added, "he found himself almost knocked up; and although, whenhe had been chosen to take over Monsieur and the two ladies, he had nothad the heart to decline, still he had found that his strength wouldfail him. He knew that he and his companion could not, unaided, reachthe opposite shore; but if the young gentleman would assist, they wouldstill do their best, and perhaps they might cross over in safety."

  This piteous tale soon turned their anger into admiration andfriendship. They thanked the kind old man for all that he had done forthem, and Arthur once, and over again, turned round to beg his pardonfor the violence he had offered him.

  "Indeed, then, I picked you out for this job," said he, "because youalways worked so hard, and seemed so skilful and anxious, and becauseI observed that your boat always made the passage quicker than theothers. You must not be angry when I tell you that I thought you hadbeen a boatman all your life."

  He said he was not angry at all, but flattered; indeed he had spent muchof his leisure time in rowing, and was heartily glad that his littleskill was now useful to his friends. He soon offered to take his placeagain at the oar, and when neither his old servant or Arthur would allowhim to do so, he declared that he was quite himself again, and thatthose few minutes' rest had wonderfully recruited him. The ladies boththanked him kindly, but begged him to remain a while where he was, andMarie, from time to time, asked him questions about the past, and triedto hold out hopes to him for the future. The tears came into his eyes,and rolled down his cheeks, and after a while he took the sexton's oar,literally to relieve himself from having to speak.

  "It is not he work alone that has upset me," said he after a while, "butthe poor people seem so callous. We have worked hard these two days, asthe young gentleman knows, and all for charity, and yet till this momentwe have not had a kind word. They urge us on to the work, and when weland them at the shore, they do not even thank us as they go away; thenwe turn back with a heavy heart for another load."

  They reached the shore of Brittany in safety, and when de Lescure wasplaced in the carriage which had been provided for him, he desired thatthe poor priest might be begged to accompany them on their jour
ney. Hedeclined, however, saying that he had found a sphere in which he couldbe useful, and that he would stick to the work till it was all done, ortill his strength failed him. De Lescure pressed his hand, and beggedhis blessing, and told him that if there were many such as him in thecountry, La Vendee might still carry her head high, in spite of all thatthe Republic could do against her. This praise made the old man's heartlight once again, and he returned to his boat, and passed back to St.Florent with his comrade and Arthur, ready to recommence his labours.In the meantime de Lescure and his wife and sister were warmly welcomedon the Breton side of the river, and before night he, for the first timesince the battle of Cholet, found himself in comparative security andpeace.

  When Arthur got back he found that another plan had been started forcarrying over the Vendeans, which, if it did not drown them altogether,would be certainly much more expeditious than that of the boats. It hadoriginated with Chapeau, under whose guidance the operations were aboutto commence.

  He had come down to the water-side with his master, and on seeing theway in which the men were working, had calculated that it would yet takeabove a week to carry over all who remained, and as it was probable thatthey would be attacked before twenty-four hours were over, he hadobserved that they might as well give themselves up for lost if theycould devise no other scheme of passing over.

  "We will do the best we can," said Henri. "If we can get over the women,and children, and wounded, the rest of us can fight our way to thebridge of Ancenis."

  "Why not make a raft?" said Chapeau.

  "Make one if you can," said Henri, "but it will only go down the stream.Besides, you have neither timber nor iron ready to do it."

  Chapeau, however, determined to try, and he employed the men fromDurbelliere, who knew him, and would work for him, to get together everypiece of timber they could collect. They brought down to the bank of theriver the green trunks of small trees, the bodies of old waggons, thesmall beams which they were able to pull down out of the desertedcottages near the river-side, pieces of bedsteads, and broken fragmentsof barn doors. All these Chapeau, with endless care, joined together bynumberless bits of ropes, and at last succeeded in getting afloat a rafton which some forty or fifty men might stand, but which seemed to beanything but a safe or commodious means of transit. In the first place,though it supported the men on it, it did not bear them high and dryabove the water, which came over the ankles of most of them. Then therewas no possible means of steering the unwieldy bark; and there could beno doubt that if the Argonauts did succeed in getting their vessels outinto the river, it would immediately descend the stream, and that it,and those upon it, would either be upset altogether, or taken towhichever bank and whatever part of it, the river in its caprice mightplease.

  In this dilemma a brilliant idea occurred to Chapeau. He still hadplenty of rope in his possession, and having fastened one end of a longcoil with weights and blocks on the riverside, he passed over with theother end into the island, and fastened it there. The rope, therefore,traversed the river, and by holding on to this, and passing it slowlythrough their hands, while they strained against the raft with theirfeet, the enterprising crew who had first embarked reached the islandin safety. Ten of the number had to return with the raft, but still fromthirty to forty had been taken over, and that without any great delay.

  After this first success the boats were sent round to work between theisland and the other shore, and the raft was kept passing to and froover the river the whole night. Nobody got over with dry feet, but stillno one was drowned, and upon the whole Chapeau was considered to beentitled to the thanks of the whole army for the success of hisinvention. He had certainly accelerated their passage fivefold.